


You Are Something Extraordinary

by Asher_2179



Category: Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: pure angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 19:49:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14315913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asher_2179/pseuds/Asher_2179
Summary: A life, lived.





	You Are Something Extraordinary

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by a wonderful piece from Tumblr user dvoyd, titled “So Do Extraordinary Things.” The start of each paragraph is a line from his poem, it has spawned a hundred beautiful angst ridden gif sets and you should definitely check it - and the rest of his writing - out.

“ _Stand up, warrior_ ,” the voice whispers, as he stares at the bodies of his aunt and uncle, blackened and burnt, outside the only home he has ever known.

It touches just the very corners of his mind, as if someone had just breathed the words over the back of his neck.

He doesn’t know what it is.

Not quite.

Not yet.

But he listens. He hears.

He will move from there, that spot, where the wind whips around him hot and sharp. He will walk on wooden puppet legs that carry him away from that home, but he will see it burned into the insides of his eyelids until the day he dies.

 

++

 

“ _You are not yet finished_ ,” say the voices.

Where there was just one before, there is now another, a duo, speaking softly and in unison. He thinks it may be the Force speaking to him, but he’s not sure.

His throat tightens.

He could have asked Ben.

Not now, though.

He pulls the blanket the Princess placed on his shoulders tight around him, like a shield. He sets his jaw.

 

++

 

“ _Beaten you may be, but broken_?“

The voices in the Force seem to howl in the wind, swirling around him as he clings on for dear life, staring into the molten glow of the billowy clouds of Bespin. They do not speak kindly to him, but there is much about his life recently which has not been kind.

His body is aching, his arm singing out loudest among it all, white hot and throbbing. He looks down and sees the welcome warm softness of the gaseous clouds calling to him.

It would be so easy to just let go.

To fall and fall until he just ... stops.

But the voices in the Force will not let him think on that for long. They speak sharply, stroppily. Time is of the essence, in this case.

He closes his eyes and reaches out.

 

++

 

“ _Never mind what you are made of_ ,” the voices chant, over and over as he watches the flames lick at the figure on the pyre, red and orange and vibrant against the black of the night, and the water, and the figure floating upon it.

He is made of light, and stardust, and desert sun, he knows that as well as he knows his own face when he looks in the mirror ... but there is a pull in his chest.

A tug.

It’s the _smallest_ thing, but it registers.

Reminds him.

He may be sun and light and the golden, vibrant part of the Force ... but he is made of the darkness as well.

He saw it.

He _knows_.

And while the man, that man, his father, came back in the end ... the same pull to the dark that consumed him, runs through his veins as well.

But now is not a time to think about that. He looks over his shoulder, and sees brightness and love.

 

++

 

“ _You are more than the flesh that binds you_ ,” the Force whispers, soft and gentle, as he looks down at the child.

His nephew.

The boy’s tiny fingers grip his thumb, and he feels it, the energy. It connects them, white and warm and strong, as if the infant was gripping him with the strength of a man.

Ben is strong.

He sees it in the boys eyes, those wide brown eyes, soulful and wise the way that all children are.

But Ben is _more_ than all children.

He is a Skywalker, as much as he is a Solo. And in him Luke sees the future; a bright, pure future full of possibility. Of growth, of new life. A new path for the Jedi, and at the heart of it, his nephew, full of love and beautiful golden light.

Ben will be a Jedi.

He can feel it, in his heart, in the Force.

He lifts the boy from his crib and holds his warm little body against his chest, breathing in the smell of him.

He has never felt love as strong as he does now.

 

++

 

“ _There is nothing you have to fear that should not fear you a thousand times more_ ,” the Force screams at him, and the volume of it, the sheer force, is a wall of sound.

The hut is silent but for the hum of his lightsaber, but inside his mind there are a million voices, all yelling at once. A cacophony of noise, exclaiming, screeching, chastising him. The voices reverberate around his head, distorted and horrified. He thumbs his lightsaber off, but the dying green light of it still illuminates a pair of brown eyes, staring up at him.

Those eyes are wide with fear and confusion.

(They too, like the image of Beru and Owen, will haunt him forever)

His heart turns to ice.

Ben’s hand flies out and Luke goes to stop him, but it’s too late.

It has been tipped too far. He has done too much. (Or too little)

Before the hut comes crashing down on him, he thinks that if he _were_ to die, right here, it would probably be a fitting end.

 

++

 

“ _Your heart is a galaxy_ ,” the Force says, and Leia tilts her head just slightly, as if someone far away had called her name.

He takes her hand in his.

He can almost feel the weight of it, her skin against his own.

Almost.

He takes her in as she speaks softly to him, sees the weight she carries on her shoulders, the toll each loss, each and every one, has taken on her.

She is still so strong, so proud.

In a different universe, a better one, she would have been the Jedi.

And the Senator.

And the General.

And the Princess who would become Queen.

She would have been each and every one of them in equal measures and bore it all with the same steadfast strength and grace she has today, sitting here in front of him, with her son, lusting for blood, just a few hundred feet away.

The Force was not talking to him.

Not then.

It strengthens him, hearing that. She will carry on.

 

++

 

“ _Your soul is lined with stars_ ,” the Force whispers, and it is soft and gentle, welcoming.

His muscles are weak, and there’s the tang of blood at the back of his throat. His limbs shake as he hefts himself upright, they _ache_ , protesting his movements.

The suns are bright, streaking across the sky as they descend towards the horizon, painting it with brilliant reds and golds.

He has always been a child of the desert, scarlet sunsets run through him as sure as the blood in his veins, and he feels it, warming him, a glow from deep within his chest.

The Force is bright and strong around him, the power of it as luminous as the sunsets, as if connecting himself again after years and years of repression has sent it bursting forth, like a damn breaking it’s barriers.

He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with cool, salty air, and he reaches out. 


End file.
